


that's when i knew (that i could never have you)

by moonsandstar_s



Category: RWBY
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-13
Updated: 2015-11-17
Packaged: 2018-05-01 09:05:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5200127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonsandstar_s/pseuds/moonsandstar_s
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[ or the one where yang is in love with a girl who hasn’t ever seen her as who she is. ]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

The first lesson you learned was that loving someone would end up with you holding the broken pieces. 

 

When Summer Rose died, you went out into the woods, blinded, and broke your fists in the trees, leaving them bloody and bruised, because you’re honestly just awful— so, so awful— with grief; you can’t handle it; it’s something you can’t _fight_ and drive away, and yet it pursued you relentlessly. 

 

It faded a little under the duress of stress, because you had to take up the load of parenting the family after Taiyang couldn’t. Qrow never was around much— after Summer Rose died, he was always drowning his sorrows in a bottle, drinking himself into a stupor of oblivion. He never said anything about Summer Rose after she died, though you saw him with a wild, crazed light of desperation and a darkness as deep as despair in his eyes at her funeral before he left without a word. He wasn’t your uncle then; he was a person driven mad with _what if’s._

 

You learned it when you crept downstairs in the dead of the night to get a glass of water for Ruby, and you saw Taiyang hunched in on himself by the hearth, cradling a picture of Summer Rose and crying quietly. He’d dried his eyes and hidden his face when he saw you, but nothing could have hidden the new lines of weariness that creased his skin. Your father suddenly didn’t seem so infallible, and it frightened you. 

 

It was then that you decided that love had a much more potent side of darkness: in the glazed look on Qrow’s face, of the shattered light in your father’s eyes, and the way you could not comfort Ruby when you heard her sobbing through the walls at night. When you stared dry-eyed at the ceiling in the dark, you knew that love could hurt worse than any knife ever could. 

 

The second lesson you learned was that a life of scars and killing had a way of driving out the darkness within you. You have always liked the life of a Huntress for two reasons: it takes away your choices, and it made you into hero, even when you didn’t feel like one inside. 

 

Fighting the Grimm gave you purpose: in some small ways, it was a vengeance for Summer Rose. Perhaps she’d be upset that you were fighting— you weren’t even her child, but she took you under her wing after you had nearly gotten killed and Qrow saved you— but either way, it calls to you. It sings in your blood: _I am so, so alive._

 

A Huntress’s life is dangerous, and you love it. After Ruby gains the same passion for it that you have, Qrow seems to burn with a new energy; perhaps she reminds him of Summer Rose, and he can teach her to survive in a way that Summer couldn’t. A little of the life comes back into his eyes. So you allow it. 

 

As Ruby grows up, she becomes more and more the spitting image of Summer Rose. The same dark, uneven locks of hair, the same stormy gray eyes, the same paleness, the same slightness of build. She wears the cape, too, albeit a scarlet one, unlike the alabaster cloak that Summer always donned. People fawn over her as she follows you into Signal, before you graduate, and she follows you to Beacon, too, which you’re happy about. You can keep an eye on her there. You never resent that she is given praise, because under that is a burden, too, of expectations, and you’ve never wanted to claim a spotlight. 

 

Of course, it has its drawbacks. That comes when you’re only trying to help Ruby make friends— Taiyang told you he had befriended Summer Rose after feeling sorry for her because no one had wanted to speak to the odd, silent girl— and you figure, _why the hell not?_

 

Her name is Blake, and strange lights dance over her face from the flickering candles, but her eyes don’t change: a honey-amber, two torches burning. She’s actually kind of _pretty,_ her skin all milky white like moonlight radiates from underneath it. 

 

When she becomes your partner, you’re _startled—_ Taiyang had made you vow to watch over Ruby, but she’s partnered with a prestigious and cold girl named Weiss. You’re not exactly disappointed with Blake, though she is rather… terse. You can’t get a vibe from her, only something like static. She’s unreadable. Indecipherable. 

 

You first notice feelings— warm, dangerous, you’re sure— swell in your chest when you’re wandering the docks in Vale. She looks beautiful— the wind off the sea stirring her hair into sable and charcoal hues, her eyes reflecting the roaring waves— and you can’t help but smile. 

 

* * *

 

 

She and you are out on the turrets of Beacon, and she’s sitting close enough for you to reach out and touch. In the graceful, serene light of the silvery moon, it bathes her in demure colors, like a rough sketch. She points out the constellations, and you can’t concentrate on them, because you’re staring at her, mapping her face out: the slight chip in her right incisor that flashes when she talks, the speckles of gold in her eyes, the slight wings of lilac above her smoky, luminous eyes, the slight halo of freckles on the bridge of her nose. 

 

“Yang,” she sighs, her voice soft and like the wind, “you aren’t paying attention, are you?” 

 

“I am,” you protest with a slight laugh, _to you, of course._

 

 _“_ Okay,” she says, and you think you’re off the hook, until she points up at the vast heavens spreading out, their lattice of light shimmering like fire. “Name one.” 

 

Your eyes dart around before landing on a familiar web of stars, one that Summer Rose taught you about. It brings a warm, bittersweet feeling to your chest. “The Huntress,” you name it, mentally connecting the image. It’s a girl in the centre of the sky, a depiction of white fire, eternally protecting the stars. 

 

“Maybe you have picked up on a thing or two.” She leans back, laying down, and you follow suit. It’s a comfortable, companionable silence. 

 

“Blake?” you ask after a long while, but her breathing has steadied; she’s fast asleep. You stare at her a moment too long, shake off the unfamiliar buzz in your chest, spreading in your veins, before gently gathering her in your arms and carrying her back to the dorm. 

 

Her head falls against your collarbones as you walk down the dappled hallways of interlaced light and dark; you wonder if the sound of your racing heart follows her into her dreams, loud and quick: _Do- you- know- how- I- feel?_

 

* * *

 

 

But then you find out that she’s not yours; she’s not even _human._ You could care less that’s she a Faunus, even a renegade of the White Fang— no, it’s not that which hurts. It’s that she lied, and couldn’t trust you with that, at least. 

 

You don’t care— but she does care, because her eyes are horrified before she runs from the room, Weiss yelling after her. 

 

You whirl on Weiss. “Shut up, okay?” Her jaw slackens, but your heart feels like it’s being constricted. “She’s our _teammate.”_

 

You want to shout at Weiss for even thinking that you should consider Blake an enemy, and that weekend, you get hardly any sleep, and the rest that does come to you is riddled with nightmares of amber eyes and screams. 

 

* * *

 

 

When you find her in the shipyard, tired and beaten from a fight she fought alone, you race over and engulf her in a hug, which she gently extricates herself from. She lays a hand on your arm, whispers _it’s okay, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,_ in your ear, and for the first time, you know what it is to not want to let someone go. 

 

There’s a bruise flowering on her cheek, dark and harsh against the pallor of her face. When the tips of your fingers brush against it, you can almost imagine sparks shooting out from where your skin meets. 

 

She pulls you aside, nods at the tall boy who’s been slouching on the crates behind her and fiddling absently with his weaponry. He’s a Faunus, you see, not bad-looking, with tousled, sun-blond hair and an open shirt that flutters in the soft sighing of the night wind. 

 

“This is Sun,” she tells you, smiling in a strange way at him, a way that makes your heart stop somewhere between your throat and the top of your chest, “he’s— he’s a Faunus, like me.” 

 

“Oh, that’s— that’s great,” you stammer, and for the life of you, you cannot comprehend why you feel sick as he smiles glitteringly back at her, too. 

 

And when you begin to walk away with Weiss and Ruby, you look back and see him give her a quick and crushing hug, and doesn’t pry herself away from him like she did from you. You look away; it feels like being marched up in front a firing squad, handed a reprieve, and then being stabbed between the shoulders as you walk away. 

 

* * *

 

 

It’s not that she’s _whole._ You never expected her to be unbroken. You’re not stupid. She was born in greed, raised in hate— but she’s mostly turned out okay. 

 

You gradually begin to notice that you stare at her a second too long, hang onto her words a little too much, get a bit too angry when she’s hurt. You brush it off as a slight of feelings, and you try not to think about it. 

 

It’s when her eyes start to dull, lose their light, becoming gray underneath like they’re smudged with charcoal that you worry. You can’t very well protect her from herself, can you? She’s your partner. Naturally you need her to be okay… but it’s more than that, if you’re honest. Lines of friendship and something more are blurring. 

 

You don’t know what drives you to confess of your past— your darkest secret, of Raven turning her back and abandoning you. It’s a thorn in your side, the chink in your armor, your Achilles heel. You hate Raven; you need to know about her. You don’t need her; you always needed a mother. She was heartless; you don’t even know her— 

 

But Blake’s eyes are soft with something like sympathy when you tell her, and you know she, more than anyone, knows what it’s like to feel like an outcast. She understands hardships and trials; she bites her lip before asking, “why did she leave you?” 

 

 _How could she leave you,_ she’s really asking, you can see it in her eyes. Not _why—_ because so many people have abandoned Blake, too, and she’s given up on the _why_ of it all. 

 

When you finish, hands gripping on the chalkboard like it’s a lifeline, your heart is heavy. It’s not a burden that’s lifted off of you. It’s another thousand pounds put on your shoulders (and _goddammit_ you’re not Atlas holding the weight of a world; it shouldn’t hurt this way) but Blake still doesn’t understand how worried you are. She can’t go on and fight Torchwick if she can’t even keep her eyes open. She’s killing herself like this. 

 

So— it’s risky— you hug her. She looks stunned, even shell-shocked, but _dammit_ you need her to take care of herself. Losing Blake— the thought’s too painful to endure. And you hold her tightly for (longer than necessary) because you need her to know that you _care,_ probably too much. She smells like jasmine and snow, cold and clear, but then her hands tentatively wrap around you, and for a few moments that are entirely too short, you are simply with her, in the smallest of ways, your hands knotted in the back of shirt, her cheek against your ear. 

 

But then she lets go, and you back away. Something’s changed— she looks a little bit surprised— and you scoot around her and climb to the summit of the stairs, pausing to look back. 

 

She’s limned in auburn and gold, edged like flame, and you realize for the first time, and the first lesson you ever were taught, that you are falling in love with her. 

 

* * *

 

 

And she’s falling in love with Sun. 

 

* * *

 

 

And nightmares replace all your dreams— 

 

_cold swirling nights and barren snowy landscapes and a tombstone with wilted roses and the stars flashing in inky depths and the space between heartbeats and Blake’s whisper of a smile and cruel obsidian eyes and remote amber skylines stained with silver—_

 

and she’s not yours. 

 

* * *

 

 

Was she _ever_? 

 

* * *

 

 

She is a disease creeping through your bloodstream, or she’s the cure, and you can’t decipher which it is, because she won’t let you in. Her heart is a house, and you are screaming at the front door… but either she can’t hear you, or she won’t hear you, because none of her doors are opening. You’re shunted to the side, again. 

 

You’re not stupid, despite the way people assume you are because of your faux-persona of optimism. Because right now, you’re anything but optimistic. You see the way she looks at him, and the way he looks at her, and for once, this darkness within you is more profound than anything you have ever encountered. 

 

It’s not Sun’s fault that you love your partner with a deathless love, but still, you can’t help but hate him for it, and you can’t help but hate Blake a little bit for breaking your heart. There’s a perfect world shining in Blake’s eyes, but it’s not a world meant for you. It’s for Sun. It always has been. And not in this life— maybe another, maybe another universe— she’ll love you back. 

 

* * *

 

 

You can’t sleep; naturally, you watch her. 

 

Starlight turns her to a rough painting of silver, her hair fanned out darkly over the pillow. She’s beautiful in a way that makes your heart ache; you kiss her on the cheek, and it burns like a brand. She’s a lot more peaceful in dreams, where nothing can hurt her, and her hand falls limply out of the bed: silver scars lacerate her arms, the blueish traceries of veins snaking under her skin, like a topography of rivers. 

 

“Sometimes I don’t know what you are,” you say softly, breath stirring against her cheek, but she doesn’t wake up, and you turn and crawl back into your own bed, devoid of warmth. Your chest is hollow, a lantern emptied, and when you fall asleep that night, she stars in your dreams, and they are peaceful. 

 

Another night, you’re sitting on the outside balcony, staring up at the stars. Snow is feathering down in steely flakes, blowing in great sweeps of dust across the ledge, and you breathe in; it stings down in your lungs, scorching your throat. It’s burning coldness. 

 

Blake climbs through the window, sits beside you, and you’re both quiet— it’s a comfortable silence, filled with the gentle murmuring of the snow and the tinkle of the wind in the bare-branched trees. 

 

The way the snow scatters, colored eerie in the moonlight, like ghosts, reminds you of the inscription carved in cold, unfeeling stone above the bones of the first mother you ever knew. 

 

“ _Thus kindly I scatter_ ,” you murmur, and Blake overhears you, a piteous look on her face. 

 

“That’s an old litany, Yang,” Blake tells you, before asking, “why are you praying?” 

 

“It’s not. _I’m_ not. It’s a requiem. It’s on Summer Rose’s grave.” You brush off your legs and stand, looking miserably out on the drifts of snow. _“‘Thus kindly I scatter / tis the last rose of summer blooming alone.’_ It was her favorite poem.” 

 

Blake’s hand settles in the middle of your spine, and you can feel where her skin brushes yours, because it feels like someone has set a brand to you. Chills that have nothing to do with the snow landing in Blake’s hair, flecking it with silver, shimmer through you. 

 

“I’m sorry,” she says softly. 

 

“Yeah,” you say for entirely different reasons, because in another life, Summer Rose is alive and Blake would be kissing you right now under the floating grace of the moon and the stars and the snow, “I am, too.” 

 

And of all the worlds where you love her and she loves you, you wonder why it is this one that you look at her like she is the sun, and she looks right through you. 

 

The seasons pass amid a whirlwind of fighting and classes and combat with Team Evil and falling even more in love with Blake as she falls in love with a boy who is not you— the regular, obviously; until you’re in Mountain Glenn and you’re staring up at broken struts and beams and steel rafters. The fire sputters and crackles, bathing everything in a red glow, and Ruby’s off keeping watch. You stare at the fire, the feebly, eternally upward lapping of the flames. The heart glows a dull, blood-red, ashes white and fine as snow. 

 

“Blake?” You try. “Are you awake?” 

 

Her voice: hushed, strained, a violinist plucking on quivering strings that are tightened to breaking. “Yeah.” 

 

You’re silent; she doesn’t respond again, and then her breathing evens. 

 

You don’t get a wink of sleep the whole night. 

 

And when the budding moment of evil comes, you stare at Blake as the walls of the cave scream by, the train rattles under your feet, and your team surrounds you— all these other people you’ve come to love. Your sister, Weiss, Blake. And you know you can’t lose them. 

 

And you don’t. You _win_ for once— you get Torchwick incarcerated, you drive the Grimm from the city, you save the day, like a hero. And then Blake leans her head against her shoulder as you sit and overlook the campus, as one team and one whole, and you feel (even if it’s temporary) at peace. 

 

Ruby’s got one arm slung around you, and Weiss’s foot is knocking against Ruby’s, and Blake has her head tucked against you. 

 

You feel so surrounded by love. You feel complete. The wind sings past you with a hidden, laughing secret, and for a blessed moment, all is well. 

 

* * *

 

 

“We’re at the _Vytal Festival,_ Blake— I can hardly believe it.” 

 

“After crime-stopping and wild escapades, that’s what catches your fancy?” 

 

The air is strong with woodsmoke and the din of laughter; bright, festive ribbons trail in fluttering rainbow arcs through the air. The clatter of dishes and the varying roars of excitement and rage as people watch fights from the holograms scattered around the grounds add to the air. Ruby and Weiss are off somewhere, presumably with Ruby bothering Weiss and Weiss pretending to be annoyed at her. It’s a game they play, just like the one you’re in with Blake— except the difference is, Blake’s clueless. 

 

“So,” Blake prompts, fixing you with a sideways look. 

 

“So what?” You banter back lightly, and the edge of her mouth quirks up. Your heart aches. _They don’t know you like I do._ Blake is smiling at you, how is she to know that you feel your heart fissuring with thousands of cracks? She tosses her head back, the light turning her hair all to sable and ebony and dark browns, her hair haloed with light. Her eyes are two pieces of glowing sun, scattered with darker shadows and chips of amber. 

 

“Yang, you look ill,” Blake notes, drumming her fingers against the edge of the table before tenting them under her chin and staring at you intently, so that you feel like you’ll start smoking under her gaze. “Nervous?” 

 

“No, that’s not it.” It’s not a lie.Blake laughs, fleeting and quick. 

 

“Sure. I wouldn’t worry; it’s only teams, not the other brackets yet. We’ll be fine, you know.”

 

 _We’ll—_ not me or you. You force a smile, just for her, though it feels plastered and strained; you wonder if she can hear how falsely it rings. “I know,” you say, even though you really don’t, and she nods, quick and sage. 

 

“They only throw the minor teams at us first, the ones from the little combat academies. Maybe if we get sent to doubles— shadow and fire semblances, for starters— that’d be something to see.” 

 

“It really would, wouldn’t it?” You discard your pretense of happiness, kick the edge of your chair, and spin away, the chair rattling, before you slide off and slip into the thronging crowds that flow through the fairgrounds. Blake calls after you, but you shove your way through an interlocked couple holding hands— it brings a sense of bittersweet darkness to your chest— and burst off, because you can’t stand to be so close to her and yet so far. The chill of autumn manifests in your sternum, sliding down your spine and clinging to your ribs, already bruised from the beat of your heart: you are indomitably in love, with the sky and the stars and the air, and with a girl who doesn’t know the way you watch her. You look up at the trees, colored in glowing flames of billowing shades: gold and greens and coppers. A leaf falls: it, too, has had to sever itself from the ones it loves, just like you. 

 

 _Blake,_ your heart is calling, but she’s not picking up on the line, and you’re slowly but surely falling behind. 

 

* * *

 

 

“ _Team SSSN wins_!” 

 

You’re shaking silently, and thoughts are whipping you into a darkness of misery. You’d tried so hard, given your all. 

 

But this isn’t a fairy tale, where the two fall in love despite all adversity. This isn’t a dream, where Blake will realize the way you look at her, the way you feel like a blade is being wedged in your throat at the thought of her loving someone else. And most of all, this isn’t a wish, where you can tell her that you want her more than you want anything, but some things simply are absolutely unattainable… and she is one of them. 

 

She’s staring down into the arena and you study her face, even though you could map it out even in your dreams. You know her better than you know yourself. She’s your second half— the gentle slant of her jaw, the softness behind her amber eyes, the wisps of hair that curl like onyx over her shoulders. 

 

“Looks like the dorks won,” you manage, steadying your voice, trying to get her to look at you. The smile comes back to her face, but she doesn’t turn. 

 

“Emphasis on dork,” she says with a small grin, flushing along her cheekbones. She doesn’t see you; she only sees Sun, grinning up at her from the spotlight— always that goddamned _spotlight_ , which has forever and always been denied to you—and a part of you shatters. You hear the intercom crackle on, and shout something, but you can’t hear over the sound of the deluge of ash and dust burning within you, the remains of what Blake Belladonna torched down when she did not choose you.  

 

“Come on,” you say, almost choking on the words, because the light in Blake’s eyes is not shining for you, has never shined for you, and you’re staring into a darkness without end, and you’re falling with no hope of light again. “Let’s go congratulate them.” 

 

She smiles absently, hair shadowing her face. You long to brush it away, but you think you’d die if you touched her, and you’re dying already— you know you’ve lost her, like you lost Summer Rose. All the battle scars you’ve acquired in your lifetime could not surmount this pain that sears white-hot in your chest. 

 

And you walk ahead, and each step feels like you’re carrying chains of a thousand pounds weighted to your ankles, because you are in love with Blake Belladonna, and she is not in love with you. 

 

* * *

 

 

As soon as you can, you slip away from your team, boarding an airship separately from them. You don’t think that you can stand to be near Blake, thinking of Sun and feeling for him in a way she never will for you, and as the clouds drift past and the tourists talk about the upcoming matches, you brace your hands on the railings of the airship and stare vacantly down at the cities that rush by below you. You’re soaring above the clouds, you’re a lauded hero for your fight in the tournament, and yet, you’ve never felt so alone and small. 

 

But all too soon, the ship has landed on a small, modernized city by the sea. The vistas sprawl out around you, villas and facades housing parties to watch the Vytal Festival. Some people recognize you as you walk past, and congratulate you for your winning strike at Team ABRN, but you’re mostly left unbothered. 

 

You’re looking for someone. You’d like to talk to him about a nagging suspicion you’ve had ever since he took Ruby under his wing and taught her, asking for nothing in return. As you grow older, you understand it more and more, but you’d like the advice of your uncle Qrow, whom you suspect has gone through much of the same torturous thoughts as you have done these past months. 

 

The brackish scent of the sea grows stronger as you near it, and then you see three places edging the beach: a small hotel, a little grubby bar dubbed **_THE CROW BAR_** — oh, the irony— , and a Dust shop. Since Qrow is unlikely to have any uses for Dust at the present and he wouldn’t be likely to hole up in a hotel— vigilance and obligations and all that— you stride into the bar. 

 

It’s mostly vacant, except for a swarthy and seedy looking woman chugging from a bottle of Shining Moon liquor, a young couple chatting with the bartender over the upcoming Vytal matches, and there, tucked in a dark corner with a single empty shot glass, ice melting inside of it, is Qrow. 

 

The bartender gives you a curious look— aren’t you a bit young to be in here?— his eyes read, but you jerk your head to Qrow, and he gives a sage nod before going back to chatting and polishing out the shot glasses. 

 

He looks up as you approach, and gives a gruff laugh. His voice is rough, low, like gravel being grated through serrated jaws, thunder shaking the earth. 

 

“Yang. How did you find me?” 

 

“Uncle Qrow, you of all people should know that information can be found easily around these parts,” you say with a smile, sitting beside him on the frayed, cracked barstool. He hasn’t drunken much yet— he doesn’t smell of alochol, and his eyes are clear and focused, though slanted with weariness— and so you feel a little more hope. He picks at his nails in a desultory fashion before conceding, “It is. So be it.” Then he turns to you; his eyes are sunken. His face is gaunt and lean and _tired,_ stubble shadowing his chin, skin pallid and leeched of color. He looks exhausted, drained; you wonder if this is what you will look like one day when you lose the energy to pretend you’re okay. “Why do you come down to these parts? It’s not often a Vytal heroine visits, especially not for an old fool wasting away in a dingy little bar.” 

 

You frown a bit at the bitterness in his voice; that’s new, but perhaps he’s tired of being used for his wisdom. “I came to ask you something upfront.” 

 

He grunts, but his eyes are wary. 

 

“I, um, have some things that’ve happened. I need your advice— er, well, I need to know something. It’s not really my business, I guess…” 

 

“When have you guessed?” he growls, knocking back a shot of tequila and closing his eyes. “You’re a great deal like my sister, you are. Always charging into things headfirst. Go ahead. Ask what you wish. I can’t promise you an answer.” 

 

You squeeze a breath into your lungs; your heart slams. “You were in love with Summer Rose,” you ask tentatively, feeling like you’re dodging land mines, “once, weren’t you?” 

 

Qrow turns towards you, eyes opening as they regard you with fathomless sadness, two chips of violet amber, clear and full of pain. Two mirror images of you sit in the melancholy black pupils. They’re not clouded by drink, but he looks scruffy and— old. Not untouchably wise like you always thought, but painfully human. 

 

“Yes,” he says at last, hardly surprising you. “I don’t know about once. I still—“ he coughs, swallows. “But that’s in the past, Yang. My sister vanished off to Vale-knows-where, and Summer was killed, and all that remains is Taiyang and myself. The sad half of what once was whole. He doesn’t know, and it will remain that way. 

 

“But— did you try? To get her to understand that you loved her. I mean, there has to be something you could have done,” you say, knowing that you’re pleading for more than answers from him. You’re asking for him to explain the crushing weight of the sky when he realized, just like you, that he was hopelessly in love with a girl who would not ever know how he felt. “Did you ever tell her? You must have tried— been able to fix it— somehow.” 

 

A silence lapses between you before Qrow rakes a hand through his hair and looks miserably down at the table, a despair in his eyes that transcends simple sorrow. He heavily sets down the empty shot glass in his hand. He shoves it away, ice clinking, and pulls a tattered photo from his overcoat: you see it is Summer Rose, mid-laugh, her eyes sparking and her face gilded in golden light. She looks wild and fierce and proud and free, and you realize Qrow must have carried this, along with his guilt, and that is what must have driven him to the oblivion of the drink. 

 

“No,” he says at last. “I never told her. I never— why burden her with that, when she would only ever see me as a brother to her? Because the sorry truth of the thing is this: you can’t fix that. You can’t make yourself fall out of love, and you can’t make the person you love feel the same. Because then it’s not _real_.” The growl has slipped from his voice, replaced by a younger voice, polished and silvery and accentuated with years worth of heartbreak. “You can’t force yourself to feel differently, you see? Every time you see that person that you hold so close, every time you’re filled with that gentle hum of love, it is followed by the crushing weight of realization as they look at you with nothing but amiability. They don’t love you back. There are many things in the world that are equally great and terrible— and loving something that will not love you back is one of the most terrible.” His eyes mist over, his palms falling open on the table. You see a little tattoo burnt black just below his wrist, one of a raven in flight. “It was too much, to know that Summer Rose had no idea how I felt, that she never _would_. She saw me as a thing for granted, just her teammate. The certainty was too much for me. I couldn’t stand it, couldn’t handle it. Because what a terrible thing it is, to love someone more than you can imagine loving anything. I was losing her every day, and I realized— just before she died— if I did not separate myself from her and the life she had built with my brother in bond, I would go mad.

 

“You mustn’t think badly of me, Yang, for what I’ve done. I was a coward for not speaking up before she left for that mission and died. Not a day goes by that I don’t think of her, wonder what might have been if things went differently. It’s not that I didn’t _try_ ; it’s that it wasn’t meant to be. She wasn’t going to love me ever, that’s all. Nothing can change Fate’s plan. It’s indomitable and irrevocable. Consider my words, if they help. Don’t lose yourself like I have. I don’t know why you’ve asked, and I don’t know what you’ve been through, but that’s the answer. Trying won’t change it, won’t fix what’s been done. Sometimes you lose the ones you love to someone else, and there’s _not a damned thing on this earth_ that you can do about it. Do you understand?” His eyes sharpen, return to you, but you hardly hear him because he’s honest, the heaviness of certainty like a loaded gun in his words. A wave of darkness threatens you. 

 

“I understand,” you manage, before you jump up and you all but flee the bar, out into the bright and blazing autumn sunshine. The fierce, longing call of gulls wheeling overhead wavers in the air, and you suck in great gulps of the salty air, burning your lungs as any hopes you might have had crumple. 

 

The wave of black awfulness does crash over you, then, constricting your chest and pulling you down into a darkness without end. You can understand him now, because there are things that are awful, and wanting someone with a fierce, acute ache of knowing you cannot have them is one of them. The sea swells and crashes against the shores, white-crested and raging, and as gulls fling themselves into the steely rises, you long to join them: to fly away, unfettered, and leave this all behind. 

 

It’s because you’re wide awake: this isn’t some dream— no, nightmare— that you can wake yourself up from. It’s like you’re being cut open every day, bleeding out onto the stones. You can’t understand how they all failed to see the blood— how _Blake_ doesn’t see the torture you’re suffering, and you tremble, breathing in great gasps and still feeling like you’re drowning.  

 

But then you see Blake and Weiss and Ruby trotting up the boardwalk, and you deflate with an exhale. It’s not an option. Heavy footfalls creak behind you as Qrow emerges from the bar, sober, squinting against the flaring beams of sunlight that fall diagonally across the boardwalk. His eyes go from you— you’re, always, staring at Blake— to her, and realization, followed by sorrow, crosses his aged face. 

 

“Ah, that’s why you asked me. Advice, was it, for being in love without hope of redemption?” he asks you in a low growl of sorrow,before they reach the range of earshot. “It’s the Faunus one, is it not?” 

 

Your eyes cut to the waves, massing crests of blue and silver, as they fling themselves against the sandy shore. “Yes, Qrow, it’s her. Blake.” 

 

“Something about her,” he says thoughtfully, “reminds me of Raven, in that way that beautiful things are always broken. She has the same look of fierce capability. You watch your heart with her.”

 

“I don’t understand.” 

 

“You are like your mother in a great deal of ways, you are,” he growls, “but you are resilient with the things you love, unlike her.” His further evasion of an answer confuses you, but before you can ask him what he means, he turns and stumps off down the walk, the gulls calling after him. 

 

“Yang!” Ruby shrieks, spotting you, before she breaks away from the group, sprinting down the boards, and tackles you in a flying hug. You feel the breath leave your lungs in an oof before you summon a smile and set her down gently. You can’t bear to look at Blake, so you flash a smile at your sister and wish for this to be over. 

 

“Where have you been?” Weiss demands, a hint of worry coloring her tone. “There was no call to just— flee the stadium like that—“ 

 

“I just wanted to come feel the air on the docks; more ships are arriving. The Amity Colosseum makes me airsick. That’s all.”  

 

“Are you okay?” Blake’s watching you; you can’t breathe, can’t see. The sea breeze stirs her hair, she looks worried. She is absolutely beautiful in a way that has now slipped from your grasp. Your heart becomes a madman, taking an axe to its own body; that is what happens every time you look at her, and all too often, you blame yourself. 

 

 _And what a terrible thing it is_ , Qrow’s rough growl echoes, smashing like a thousand knives through your skull, _to love someone more than you can imagine loving anything._

 

You choke in a breath (there will always be another day for regret) and tuck your hands, spindly and cold as frost, into your pockets, (because another day will come when she is happy and living her life without you) before forcing a smile, a strained one. “I’m fine.”  

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Rain is falling down around you. 

 

Rivulets of icy water trail down your skin, trickling through your hair and extinguishing your light. You stand in the bleakness, shivering, broken avenues with dimly flickering streetlamps illuminating a globe of rain. In the light, each drop looks like a spark that glows for a moment before spitting itself out into darkness. Buildings, full of happiness and chattering and life, are tucked all around you, but you continue down the pavement, the coldness seeping into your skin. 

 

You attempt to summon your semblance, to bring fire to this snowy night. Nothing— no warmth floods your veins in a ceaseless, churning tide. All is cold, cold, cold. Your head, your heart, your soul. A land locked in ice: snow crystals stir in your blood. 

 

Some nights, like these, your thoughts get so loud that you cry out for them to leave. They scatter like birds, startled out of their trees, before landing again where they were. 

 

After a while, you just have to let them sing, and they sing with images of Blake under the stars and her hand in yours and her nose and lips and eyes, everything that is not yours, and will never be yours. 

 

You really ought to be hurrying back to the hoverpad, where the airships that deport to Beacon are waiting. But you’re _cold,_ and that’s all you can feel, a fluctuating burning of misery and ice. 

 

You remember once, when you were still very young and Summer Rose was alive, when you flung one of your father’s weapons— a serrated knife with a handsomely polished hilt of banded metal and glossy wood— into the hearth fire. Most homes would have those knives, dangerous things, locked away where children couldn’t reach them, but you and Ruby were the child of two warriors— or at least Raven, though you didn’t know her by name then, _used_ to be a warrior—and so danger was a taken part of life. You were given a little more trust and toughness than a regular human. 

 

You had hurled it into the fire, raging in a towering temper at Taiyang. Now, looking back, your anger was somewhat justified— you had been badgering him about information on your _real mom,_ which he’d refused to give. The raw pain that had cut new lines in his eyes hadn’t deterred you, but you eventually gave up, stormed away into the living room, spotted his knife, and then tried to destroy it.

 

A swarm of displaced sparks like fireflies had fled angrily, swirling and spiraling, away from it. It had glowed dark among the flames, before Taiyang had come in the room and laughed. Your bewilderment outweighed your anger— why wasn’t it _burning,_ why was it just laying there?  

 

“A brave attempt, Yang,” he chastised you as he shook his head chidingly, not at all angry, using the fire tongs to remove it, “but thwarted.” Specks of ash flecked his sun-colored hair, and you scowled. His prized knife had come out uncharred, with only soot clinging to the blade, which glowed dimly red before turning dark again.  

 

“Your knife is weird,” you had growled, and he’d laughed.  

 

“This knife,” he’d said, fingers curling round the hilt as he brandished it, flourishing, towards the fire, “is like you.” 

 

“If you’re calling me —“ 

 

He pressed a hand up for silence. “No, no— it makes sense, listen. This knife is immune to fire, immune to trials and tribulations. It’s strong. It thrives when paired with fire, takes in the power of the flame. Like you do.” His eyes reflect the flickering flames, leaping orange. “Your mother, your real one— she was strong, too, like this knife. She was born under crossfire, and she survived. Like you will. This knife— fire can temper it with suffering, but it will shine through. It survives. That’s all it knows _how_ to do. If you’re anything like I know you are, you won’t be able to help but shine.” 

 

“Uncle Qrow would think you were _crazy,_ Dad,” you had said decisively, turning and marching away, but even then, you had been able to feel the fire that slept in your veins, a slumbering bed of coals waiting to be ignited into a full-blown blaze. It had taken one spark to wake you, that was all. 

 

Loving Blake, Raven’s disappearance, being forced to take care of your family at such a young age, Summer Rose’s death, finding that being a Huntress sung in your blood— all of those were sparks to join you, a swirling inferno. They all inspired feelings of flame— the blaze of being in love with Blake, the controlled heat of your anger towards Raven, the embers of your stress and sadness, the flickering flame of inspiration. 

 

Now, your love for Blake is a torrential deluge of water and darkness, rushing forth to devour, extinguish, and consume you. 

 

“Yang?” 

 

You hear a voice, dull in the din of the rain, snake out after you, wrapping tendrils around your heart and yanking you back from running away from your emotions.  

 

Blake emerges from the rain, sheets of darkness parting around her slim figure: she’s sharp and graceful, painted in all Victorian colors of silver and gray and black. Glints of darkness flicker from her clothes. She’s beautiful. 

 

She’s not yours. 

 

But you smile, because you _are_ in love with her, after all, and being near her makes your heart take unwanted leaps against your chest. 

 

“You look like a drowned rat out here.” 

 

“And you look like a drowned cat,” you retort. “Which is more accurate?” 

 

“Fair enough.” She nods her head. “Come on. We’re waiting for you. You ought to hurry. I know Ruby and Weiss are a lot closer, but even the ice queen has a limit.” 

 

You walk back towards her, take her hand in the rain. She looks surprised for a moment, but then her grip tightens against yours, rain sliding through the gaps in your fingers. 

 

You may not be able to love her like you want to, but for now, she is your partner— and that’s all you can ask, really. 

 

(Or maybe you’re afraid to let her stoke the fire in your chest, for fear you will burn her alive.) 

 

* * *

 

 

You leave Weiss and Ruby behind after Weiss damn near breaks your arm trying to get out to the courtyard to see her sister, and Ruby races doggedly after her. You’re not very familiar with Winter Schnee, but you vaguely remember Qrow spitting the name out in one of his drunken states, along with “ _ice queen_ ” and a few other choice words that were much too foul for your tender eleven year-old ears. From what you gather, he’s made a _lot_ of enemies, with his crudeness and tendency to either, _a)_ be drinking during even the most serious of meetings and, _b)_ his fondness of expletives and sarcasm to get his point across. It’s a quality about him that you love, because he’s family, but to others, he must be awfully infuriating. 

 

(You couldn’t go near Qrow in the courtyard because being near him would have brought thoughts screaming in your mind— _to love someone more than you can imagine loving anything nothing you can do I never let her know being in love without redemption nothing can change Fate’s plan nothing nothing nothing you can do ever— )_

 

Blake pulls away from you and looks at the hulking mass of the airship; her eyes go remote and clouded. You follow her gaze— she’s staring at the curving and bold lines, slashed and sharp like exclamation points, ones that read out _Schnee Dust Company._ Her bow twitches; to anyone else, they’d think it was a trick of the wind, but you know it’s her ear flicking in agitation. 

 

“Are you familiar with Winter?” 

 

Her lip curls, angry. You don’t think she’s even aware of it. “You could say that. I know the Schnees in a way.” Then her eyes flicker with amusement, even though it looks forced, for your sake. “Your uncle beat her soundly, though. That’s credit for something. It was… interesting.”  

 

“I wouldn’t call tearing up half the courtyard in a stupor, pissing off everyone in the vicinity, and doing it all with a flask on his hip _kicking ass.”_ You shrug modestly. “He’s always had a habit of… rebelling against authority. It’s why Ruby’s like she is, I guess. He’s got the same semblance as me, like Winter has Weiss’s semblance.” 

 

Blake looks at you innocently. “The ability to make people annoyed?” 

 

You sock her in the arm, a laugh welling up from a hidden spring in your chest, hidden among tumbles of darkness and the crevices of steeped bitterness. Despite everything, Blake can still, and always, make you laugh. 

 

“In all seriousness, however, the General looked awfully angry with Winter…” You frown and bite your lip, feeling Blake’s eyes on you. “I hope Uncle Qrow didn’t get her in too much trouble.” 

 

Blake’s smile is the flash of an incisor, the edge of a dark night. “Oh, I would _count_ on it.” 

 

* * *

 

 

“So you’re the rest of the team, huh?” 

 

Qrow is in the dorm room, casting sharp amber eyes down at a sniffing Weiss and an apprehensive looking Blake. Ruby is clinging to his elbow, squealing at him to recount his epic battle with Winter (which Weiss insists was no more than a simple brawl—even if it did attract a large array of spectators.) 

 

You’d stopped him in the hallway and berated him, making him swear to hold his tongue and be civil to your team, especially Weiss, after he virtually pissed off the entirety of the Schnees. You’re more than well-aware that Weiss already holds him in low esteem, though not contempt— Ruby managed to convince Weiss not to hate Qrow entirely, at least— but Blake is reserving judgement, and you want him to like her. He already knows you love her, so the pity in his eyes is expected. He gives you a doubtful look as you insist that you’re getting better, that you don’t really love her— and it’s a lie. Both of you know it. 

 

He gives you a pat on the head that’s more like a clobber. “Here, since you expect me to be drunkle instead of uncle. I’ll even give you this.” He thrusts his flask towards you. Two engraved pictures of winged eyes, or maybe gearwork, are carved in the boiled leather sides, and it smells vaguely of whiskey. He’s had it as long as you can remember, and you slip it into your belt before fixing him with a sharp glare. “Uncle Qrow, you are allotted two ‘ _damns_ ’,” you warn him, “and that’s it. No more. Ruby learned _more_ than enough dirty words from you before she even passed into the double-digits.”

 

That elicits a barking laugh from him. “You got it, kid.” He’s decidedly less eloquent when he wants to be— though, you reflect, perhaps Summer Rose’s death made him adopt this roguish, gruff personality. His speech to you in _The Crow Bar_ certainly revealed that he hasn’t lost his touch with words. 

 

When you enter, Qrow gives a vulpine grin to Weiss, Blake and Ruby, nodding. “Kids.”

 

Ruby beams, Blake gives a nod back, and Weiss’s expression remains as if it was carved, true to the name, out of ice. 

 

“Sorry for the little… scene earlier,” he apologizes grudgingly to Weiss, his hand creeping to his double-sword scythe that lays across his shoulder blades, gears glinting dully. “Your sister and I have some bad blood.” He mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like _she’s a bitch,_ but you let it slide. 

 

“Apology accepted,” Weiss says, though there’s still a note of frost in her tone. 

 

Qrow warms up to Blake right away— something about his rough nature and her dark disposition get right along, and before you know it, they seem like old pals. You suspect it’s less of him liking her because she’s your partner, and more correlated to his fondness of the Faunus. He’s always been decidedly outspoken against their mistreatment, often dropping into rallies and using his thorn-sharp wit on those who are bigoted, and he believes that the White Fang would still be a peaceful organization if humanity hadn’t continued its segregation of the Faunus. You can tell it’s something that Blake appreciates, because her face loses its apprehension and warms to relief and liking. 

 

“I like your uncle,” she tells you later that night, after he leaves to have a word with the headmaster. “I didn’t think I would because Weiss acted like he’d killed her firstborn, but he’s actually, you know.” She waves a hand. “A good sort-of guy.” 

 

“Is it his ability to weave a swear word into every other sentence?” You grin at her, dragging a comb through your hair as silky golden strands filter through your fingers. 

 

She looks at her hands, her cheeks turning slightly redder, or maybe it’s the light. “No. He’s a lot like you and Ruby. I can see where you got most of your personality from.” She smiles back at you, but your heart is— again— thrumming in your chest. 

 

* * *

 

 

The wind sends leaves rattling down from the trees in a fluid rustle. 

 

It’s brisk, and the night sky is peppered with chips of starlight. Distant music from the ongoing festivals sways through the air, rushing and twinkling and spiraling up and up into the night, each note a crystal drop in its own cadence, dropping through the air like refreshing rain. It’s the feeling in your chest. It’s indescribable, this nostalgia and this aching emotion that is not any emotion, really, just a complex tangle of feeling. It reminds you of a waterfall thundering around a cliff, of a snowy wolf howling to the faraway winter moon, of being locked to the ground when you long to fly in a crisp blue sky, of lone clouds and nature and all the secrets of the earth. 

 

The Amity Colosseum is a dark hulking mass in the sky above, guarded with airships and fleets. You close your eyes. Blake is on your mind, her angular visage and her honey eyes and her sable hair, and you wonder if one day, you will not be this in love with her. Because living this way— like a stone at the bottom of a river or a sea, you think life might just be flowing right past you. 

 

That day, you think, is a long way away, because your heart is still held in her beautiful hands. She could break it, she has that power over you, and the thought isn’t even scary anymore. 

 

You wonder when you became numb to the blaze of loving: it’s a drug, a disease, you’re now immune to.  

 

* * *

 

 

“ _Dammit,_ dammit—“ 

 

“ _Andddddd_ dammit.” Ruby looks up at you with wide gray eyes sparkling with amusement, the rippling blue glow of her Scroll casting watery light on her face. “That’s what you were going to say, wasn’t it…?” 

 

“No. I was going to add a ‘ _shit_ ’, in there, you know, just for variety.” Glaring moodily out the window, you frown. “Where _are_ they?” 

 

“Weiss is probably with her sister.” Ruby’s voice adopts a darker, ominous note that you don’t dwell on, her eyes turning from the peaceful gray of a lake to the way the sky looks just before a thunderous storm. “Blake— I don’t know, buying up all the tuna in Vale?” 

 

You have a feeling in your stomach— not butterflies, it’s too big and dreadful for that— maybe the air fleet of Atlas. Jet planes. Airships. Whirring copters, setting you aflutter. “She _would_ have asked me to come with her. I’m her _partner.”_  

 

Ruby’s frown deepens, furrows carving worried lines between her brows. She doesn’t question you. Ruby’s anything if not damn near _psychic_ , and you know she’s noticed the feelings between you and Blake— or rather, the unrequited ones on your end. “Check your Scroll?” she offers. 

 

You pull it out from your bra— hey, when you don’t have pockets, you have to improvise— and check it— one new notification from your Twitter feed speculating about the Vytal doubles rounds that are upcoming, but then the thick words: _No New Messages to Display._ The churning hollowness in your stomach is unleashed now, a miasma of twisting coils that constrict round your chest. “I’m _worried,”_ you growl, chucking your Scroll so it spins across the gnarled and twisted sheets, blinking up with yours and Ruby’s and Weiss’s and Blake’s faces, and you throw yourself down on the bunk. The books shift and the ropes creak. Ruby sticks her tongue out and assumes a wounded look. You adopt a similarly injured expression. 

 

Then your scroll buzzes and lights up with a rare smiling picture of Blake. You almost get whiplash from groping over to snatch it up, and you swipe ‘take call’, heart aflutter—

 

And you hear the muffled voice of Blake. She’s not talking to you, but to someone in the background. Her voice is thick like blood is in her mouth, and then you hear a low, menacing voice that is like gravel being dragged through a grinder— and a high scream, unmistakably Blake’s, pierces through the speakers, rises to the night stars, before it’s cut off with an awful snarl. The sound of crunching metal and grinding stone before a sound like a freight train blares through the Scroll and the call ends with a shrill beep. 

 

Ruby has sat bolt upright, her face pale and set, but you can’t think over the roaring of blood in your ears. “She’s in trouble— oh my God, Ruby—“

 

“Come on.” Ruby’s jumping out of her bed and grabbing your hand, pulling you into action as she straps ammo around her waist and stuffs Crescent Rose into her belt. You cram Ember Celica on your wrists, your hands shaking something awful, because Blake’s not here and you need her to be here and what if something terrible is happening, what if she’s being hurt, and oh God oh God oh _God—_

 

You’re racing down the halls with Ruby, faster than you’ve ever run before. Your heart pumps away in your chest, all shaking and swirling like a hurricane, and then you’re out in the courtyard and sprinting for the hoverpad, Ruby on your heels. 

 

Before you board the silent hulk of the waiting airship, your heart climbs to your throat. _You have no idea where she is—_

 

“Where is she?” Ruby asks you. There’s a tremble in her voice, but she’s concealing it for your sake, and sometimes you, too, forget that Blake is just as much family to all of you, and it’s not just you that cares for her, and loves her. 

 

You grab your Scroll, open it up with a chill in your veins. With a tap on Blake’s icon, it allows you access to her profile. Blake’s location says she’s somewhere in the far side of the city, near Forever Fall. You show the driver and then the airship is speeding off into the deceptively peaceful night heavens. 

 

Ruby doesn’t offer anything to console you, because she knows that there are no reassurances that Blake is perfectly okay. The scream keeps replaying like some sick soundtrack in your mind, and you bite your lip so hard you draw blood, coppery and metallic. 

 

The airship finally drops you off at the blinking point on the map where it said that Blake was located. It’s a grove of trees— no surprise there, really— waving like ghosts in the darkness. 

 

A dilapidated warehouse looms up, the size of a cathedral, bulky against the moonlit trees. Sagging windows, glinting with jagged glass, glare down like vacant eyes. “This is it,” you say, sure, to Ruby, and she nods, a steely fire flaring in her eyes. 

 

“Let’s go get ‘em,” she says, cocking Crescent Rose. You spare one glance at the moon, shining like an unfeeling eye above, before you plunge into the labyrinth of the abandoned warehouse. 

 

Within, the shadowy shapes of cranes and abandoned maps, curling with age, are littered about. Catwalks and ramshackle lights cross like scaffolds above. 

 

You hear the indistinct rumbles of a voice and your muscles go taut. Ruby creeps ahead and you follow as she vanishes behind a spire of metal, and then a yelp, followed by a crack, pierces the air. You rush forward, thinking the worst, but Ruby’s holding her own— very well— in a quarrel with a group of White Fang members. You rush into battle, and fury lends you energy as you decimate them in a whirlwind of pulsing blood and thrilling fire. 

 

They lay unconscious— you hope— in moments, and then another wave descends from the darkness. They don’t attack this time, though. A taller—and more calculating one— steps forward, and regards you with cold eyes, contemptible and proud. 

 

“Humans,” he growls, fangs curling from his upper lip. “Why are you here?” 

 

Your voice is full of rage, choking. Ruby raises her scythe menacingly. “Give Blake back, or you won’t live to see the light of day again.” 

 

He doesn’t waste time playing dumb, his lip raising in a snarl of amusement. “Belladonna is a renegade, _human_. She abandoned the White Fang. She is ours to claim and ours to kill. She knew what happened to deserters. Leave now, abandon her to her rightful fate, and we will not kill _you_.” 

 

“You can take your rightful fate and shove it up your—“

 

He attacks. 

 

You react on instinct. You punch him in the jaw so hard that his head snaps around, blood spraying across your shirtfront. He hits the wall, hard enough that you hear something go _snap_ and he goes sliding down, head lolling in a sick, skewing angle. Fire is licking through your veins, scorching in a consuming tide of liquid fury, and you blaze in a tearing tsunami through their ranks, a whirling tornado of carnage. 

 

When they all lay dead or unconscious, you stop, panting. Ruby looks a little worse for the wear— a bruise on her cheek, a bloody scratch on her forehead— but she’s mostly okay. She looks at you in concern. “Yang, you’re bleeding.” 

 

You touch your cheek. Your hand comes away, wet and black, shining in the moonlight. Blood. Tasting metal in your mouth, you swallow. “We have to find her,” you whisper. 

 

“Right— okay, okay, let’s go.” 

 

Your search of the lower level yields nothing, but then you hear a low, keening call from above you— the sound of a low voice, wracked with agony, calling your name. “Yang?” 

 

“Blake!” Your heart jumps— one two one two one two, day in day out. “I’m coming.” 

 

A search reveals a spiraling flight of rickety metal stairs, and you race up them, metal clattering in a din of a frantic song, as loud as your heart. 

 

You find her, her shoulders sharper than sliced angel wings, with her arms knotted behind her back. There’s a great fan of sticky darkness on her skin— blood, you realize distantly, and the air is woven with threads of copper. She’s underneath a broken window that sends fleeting moonlight pouring silver rain down upon her; she’s blackness, a creature born from shadows. Blood mats on a gash near her temple, and bruises darken her skin. Her bow’s gone, her ears flattened in terror, pupils so huge and taking in so much darkness that it’s like two black holes surrounded by rings of sun. Her Scroll is some ways from her, a long crack running diagonally down the screen. The last screen that it’s on is your face, bleeping on a _call terminated._

 

Her eyes are turned to the moon and she is achingly young. 

 

You almost trip running to get to her, and Ruby follows at a more languid pace, looking around warily. Blake stares up at you from the pool of moonlight like she can’t believe you’re here, can’t believe you came to save her. In the darkness, she is one of Heaven’s angels, bleeding golden ichor and filled with a torment she cannot name.

 

“Are you okay?” It’s the first words torn from you, from the sight of her being hurt this way. She’s not okay, of course, she looks stricken, ashen.  

 

“You came,” she whispers, voice raw, and she reaches up with a bruised and bleeding hand and caresses your face, and suddenly the stinging in your eyes isn’t from weariness and the hot currents running down your face aren’t blood. “I was afraid— I was afraid you wouldn’t find me…” 

 

“Blake,” you choke, overwhelmed, because she’s okay. She’s _okay_. You would hold her harder, but you don’t ever, ever want to hurt her. “I would walk to the corners of the earth and back to find you.”  

 

She squeezes your hand hard, shuts her eyes, and you pull her close, head nestled behind her shoulder. 

 

You don’t know how long you hold her, but it’s long enough for Ruby to patrol the perimeter and guarantee that no more White Fang guards are lurking, unseen, in the shadows. Blake buries her face in your collarbone, breath shaking as it rustles from her lungs, and she murmurs something. You think it’s your name, breathed out like a prayer against your skin, and a jolt like electricity straight from the sun shivers through your blood. 

 

You don’t want to let go; you’re still trembling, the last vestiges of fear leaving you. Her heart— you can feel it, unsteady and racing from her ordeal— she’s shaking. Tears carve rivulets of clear skin through the dust on her cheekbones and with your thumbs, you gently clear the blood and tears and dirt from her cheeks, hands lingering on her face. “I’m here,” you tell her, and a smile, faltering and weak but _there,_ touches her lips. 

 

“I know.” 

 

* * *

 

 

It’s you that gets Blake well again, tending her wounds and the mental scars that they gave her. You don’t— could never— resent her for it. 

 

Sun eventually comes to visit her with a determined steel in his eyes, and he tosses you a look before he goes in, and with a sinking, sick feeling, you know he’s going to ask Blake out, and she’s going to say yes.

 

It’s hard, more immensely hard than you have ever known before, to leave the room with the remnants of Qrow’s lecture flying through your skull. _Fate, Fate, Fate. You’re powerless to change it, anymore than you can alter the changing of the tides or the rotation of the moon._ You grip the side of the wall so hard your knuckles go white and fissures snake out from your fingers’ clenching pressure. 

 

You can hear the rumbling of indistinct voices, their tones and textures, and it surprises you at how Sun’s voice resonates with courage, and then surprise and then sadness, and Blake’s is firm and certain. 

 

The door gives a creak, comes swinging open on its hinges. Sun steps out, looking like he’s aged more in the time that he went in than when he came out. He doesn’t look put together as always. His shirt is buttoned, his hair messy, falling in his eyes. It’s not the look of a guy who has found out his feelings were reciprocated— it’s the sad look of thinly disguised heartbreak. 

 

“Sun,” you say, aware— and uncomfortable—of the fact that you’ve spent so much time hating and resenting him— not him personally, because he’s a good guy, obviously, but for how you ( _thought?_ ) he felt for Blake. But… 

 

He’s standing, shifting around uncomfortably, but to his credit, he offers you a glinting smile— it’s like the sun through a shifting sky, unsure whether it wants to shine or rain— and thrusts his hands into his belt. You notice they’re shaking. “Oh— Yang. Hey.” 

 

“Can I ask you a question?” 

 

His smile is still weak, flickering like the empty, hollowed heart of a jack-o-lantern, his eyes faltering. He’s attempting to conceal the pain on his face; he’s failing miserably, and you wonder what Blake— Blake, who you were sure loves ( _loved?_ ) him— could have said to him in the time you were standing in the hallway. “Sure,” he shrugs. “What’s up?” 

 

It’s your turn to frown, all but nibbling the inside of your lower lip raw. “When— and this is going to sound personal and probably invasive and please, feel free to totally ignore me— but when you just went in there to talk to Blake, I …” You make some kind of vague indicating motion with your hands before they swing to your sides. They’re heavy, not just because of your gauntlets. “What did you ask her?”

 

When you look up at Sun, he’s blinking at you in silence, expression blank. The pause stretches for several long moments, tense and heavy, until he finally blows a heavy sigh through his nose and adjusts against the side of the wall. “I asked her if she felt the same way about me that I did her.” He shrugs, looking at his arms.

 

“And— and what did she say?” It comes out before you can stop it; it’s stupid, considering the desolate look on his face— the answer is obvious, but _why?_ You’ve already asked Blake a similar question, if she was in love with him, at a dance that seems like forever ago, but the answer never came out. Now, Sun’s looking at you dead in the face, jaw set tightly, eyes drawn tight.

 

“That I wasn’t who she wanted to be with.” Sun’s chest swells and deflates again. “That I was, you know, like her brother. I know she’s from the White Fang, originally, and all, but I— I didn’t care about any of that. She’s wonderful despite how she believes she isn’t. I guess maybe I thought she felt the same way about me that I did her. It’s not that she’s a Faunus; that’s not all I like about her. I mean, other stuff played a part, too. But she pushed me away when I tried to get closer to her. You know. I just couldn’t …” He runs a hand through his hair, lank tousles of gold falling in his eyes, his tail flicking low over the pavement, before his eyes lock on yours again. “She says I’m not _you.”_

 

It’s your turn to gape. “What?” 

 

There’s no bitterness or the sting of shattered hubris in his eyes, which startles you. “Yang— you’re not terribly discreet. Most of us knew that you and Blake had something going on. I just…” His eyebrows dig over his nose. “I wanted to ignore it, think it wasn’t true. But I guess I was wrong; it was just proven to me. She needs you and I can’t always be there for her like you’re able to be. You’re her teammate; her partner. God knows you understand her more than I do. I just… I just can’t be who she _wants_. And that’s _you_.” 

 

You feel like sinking into the concrete of the parking lot. Looking up at the gray sky, you hold your torso and know now that Sun has, all along, been feeling the same pressure that you have— loving Blake, not being reciprocated. You meet Sun’s eyes; he stares back, lips screwed tightly together. And between the months, he might have to come to know her, but he doesn’t own her, that much is clear. 

 

All of this started with him. You first realized you had fallen for Blake when she began to hold him more closely than she did you. You’d known it, just like you knew fire slept in your heart. Because every time you think you’re getting better at not loving her, that the dust is settling, she’ll smile in a certain way or brush her hand against yours or say something and then you’re choking all over again. 

 

“I mean, she’s a Faunus, of course, but that’s not it. As a person— she’s great. You obviously know that.” Sun flinches a smile. “She’s funny. She’s sweet, though God forbid you say that to her face. When she does let you in, you feel special. She’s a good person once you find her.”

 

You nod. You think of Blake holding you— or maybe you’re both holding each other—under the rain of silver moonlight in the broken warehouse. You think of the days following your joining as partners, the way she smiles crookedly just at you, the way she hugs you like she’s trying to enfold the two of you into one entity, the shine of her eyes before she hugged you back, tightly enough to shatter, in the deserted classroom, her soft hands on your shoulders the first time you danced. You think of _her,_ as she is, not a glorified image you’ve built in your mind— all her flaws, all her scars.  

 

Your eyes close and you immediately see Blake’s, brilliant amber orbs soaking up your vision like overexposed lights. You hear her crying and laughing and asking you to make a promise despite how she never, ever makes promises and you feel her fingers holding you saying _don’t let go don’t go away don’t leave_ and, always, _stay stay stay._

 

You see the sun and the moon breathing in the stars.

 

And you love her. That’s not to say that Sun doesn’t love her, but Blake doesn’t reciprocate that ( _God_ , it’s hard to realize that, after months of suffering under that tormenting thought), and he can’t be blamed for having feelings, even though you hated him so long for it. It doesn’t negate him at all. It’s just not meant to be. Once, it was the eclipse for their love, but that time is over. Now it’s time for yours, because you’ve longed for Blake for ages, you know what you want, and you love her— with all your fire and light because she’s the only love you have ever known, the only soul you’ve ever saved. 

 

You can’t be perfect. Blake can’t help throwing up walls. And you love her anyway.

 

You don’t realize you’ve said it aloud until Sun’s stunned expression registers, his gray eyes widening. You stare at him, mouth slamming shut. His throat barely manages a swallow before he looks at his arms again.

 

“Well.” He coughs, fiddles with the red gauntlets on his wrists. “Good. Because Blake deserves someone like you, Yang.”

 

You blink in surprise. Sun turns to go, looking over his shoulder, gray shadows playing across his face before the real sun breaks through the clouds above, turning him all to gold and white. 

 

You smile, and he smiles back.

 

* * *

 

 

It takes her a few days to recover, and you don’t ask her anything, even though Sun’s surety of words ring through your mind— _I just can’t be who she wants and that’s you, Blake deserves someone like you, Yang, she’s a good person once you find her._

 

And she is. You know that. She’s always been hell-bent on doing the right thing no matter what, for fighting the good fight. God knows she’s reckless and even foolish at times, but damned if she isn’t anything but braver than you will ever be. It’s not that it hasn’t cost her, of course; sometimes the name _Adam_ falls from her lips on quick breaths in the middle of the night, when her eyelids twitch with nightmares, unseen by you. She’s riddled with demons and scars all throughout, she has walked through more shadows and the deepest nights that you, girl born of fire, cannot possibly imagine— and yet, you still want her. 

 

Broken pieces and all. 

 

You notice the little things, her fingers lingering on your wrist, the way she seems to be watching you when she thinks you’re not looking, the sparkle of secrets in her eyes, unsaid words dancing on her lips. You know that one day the earth will dim, the light in the sun will flicker and die, and the moon will sigh and roll over, keeping her back to the world. Your shadows will say farewell to your bodies, and go their own way in the darkness. But until then, there is you and Blake, Blake with her young face and old eyes, so very old, as she gazes out the window: past the trees and all their leaves, out to the very fabric of the stars. Light shimmers against her irises. 

 

Because if anyone can make you happy, it’s Blake, you know that. And if you can’t take chances now, why ever take them at all? 

 

She turns towards you. There’s the fading shadow of a bruise just below her temple, her forehead creased in sadness, a crease that smooths over into a glint in her eyes as you settle down next to her, drawing your knees up to your chin. Her foot absently taps yours. 

 

“Heard Sun came in here,” you tell her. 

 

Her eyes flick up to meet yours, wariness and a hint of something like sunshine playing within them, before going back to the window, frosted over with misty smoke of coldness. “Yes.” 

 

“Why did you turn him down?” The words aren’t a question, not really; you know it and she knows it— it’s a dare, if you will, a silent challenge to be surmounted, a _do you know how long I’ve been aching for you?_

 

It’s so _simple,_ does she know that you love her you’ll love her until you die you’ll love her long after that? 

 

Her mouth dips in a contemplative frown. “He’s not who I want.” 

 

That is the final stone’s throw into a dam, water crashing forward. You lean close, meet her gaze. “How do you not see?” Your words are pushed through your teeth: pearly gates that have for so long been holding back the words you need to say. You’re surprised at yourself, at the notes of anger that sing through your words.

 

Maybe it’s time to get angry. She may love you back, but what the hell gives her the right to leave you wandering alone in the dark? 

 

The words— they’ve slipped out in dreams, in smoking breaths in the cold, in the nighttime, whispered alone to yourself, but never, never around her— but you look her, dead in the eye, all of her thoughts swimming and lighting and dying. “I _love_ you, Blake Belladonna,” you say firmly, “and I have for— for a long time.” Your voice cracks. “And you never let me know you didn’t feel the same about Sun. You _hurt_ me.” 

 

Her voice has dwindled and vanished; she looks pale, the ghost of herself. For once, you’ve rendered her absolutely and incomprehensibly speechless: her mask has slipped, leaving her bare. You can see what makes her tick, what makes her _live._

 

It is glowing gold. It is _you._

 

“Yang, I— I don’t—“ 

 

Anguish tightens your chest, your voice lowering with torment. “I _tried,_ Blake, dammit. I tried to forget about it. But you— you’re something different. I can’t forget how I feel. It’s everywhere whenever I look at you, and it’s changed me. You think I didn’t _try_ to get over it? I did. But I can’t help…” Your voice is small. “I told you once that I’d walk to the corners of the earth and back for you. And I _would.”_ You turn away; your knuckles are white, bleached, your nails stinging tiny crescents into your palms. “Don’t you understand?” 

 

The sound of whispering breaths. Her hand touches you hesitantly on the shoulder, like she’s afraid you’ll whip into a frenzy and tear her apart. Something tells you that if you tried, she wouldn’t put up a hand to stop you. 

 

“I understand more than you think.” 

 

You press your back up against the wall, shoulderblades the beginning of the flame. Your blood is racing with fire; you’re heaving; you could char the air and singe it, burn it to the ground—but she doesn’t move, and you see two of you reflected in tiny images in her eyes, like windows to her soul. 

 

“You— _what?”_

 

“I’m not blind, Yang.” Her eyes are on the stars now; she looks more remote than every galaxy that cycled across the heavens. The constellation of the Huntress is reflected in her gaze. “Even if you think I am. But I _am_ a coward.” She looks down. “Just like I said I was. I may be a lot of things, but I’m not a liar, and I didn’t lie in Mountain Glenn… that, for me, it was the hardest thing to do.” 

 

You’re the one without words now, and she shifts closer to you, fine threads of starlight jumping between the space; looking out over the courtyards and towering spires, all obscured in a diaphanous shroud of nightly mist. Somewhere in Remnant, someone is falling in love like you did; in Remnant right now, someone’s heart is breaking. “I caught these hints. You would talk differently. You’d—how do I describe it? I could _feel_ it from you.” Her eyes don’t let yours go. “It terrified the hell out of me. I— told you about Adam once. He was… the only person I ever really _loved_ before. But I came to Beacon— and you, Ruby and Weiss— you’ve given me a family. I never thought I’d have that again.” Her hand comes up, one hand tracing the familiar shape of the bow perched atop her head.  

 

“I never cared that you were once a member of the White Fang,” you tell her. 

 

“I know you don’t. And that is more than I could ever ask for.” 

 

“Not being with you is the hardest thing I’ve ever known.” Your breath rustles from your lungs; your voice is lost with anguish. Images flash behind your eyes— Summer Rose’s funeral, a sky where the stars are drowned out by an abundance of light, the moon like a tuft of white in the distance, falling into a forever darkness that screams past you. “Asking me not to love you— that’s like asking me not to breathe. It’s not possible. And, hell, I don’t know if there’s a day I’ll look back and curse myself for it. But all I know is now I’ve been loving you for so long, but I don’t know when it happened. I don’t know why, but it has. And here you are, asking me if I had a choice in loving you. As if I could stop.” You brace your hands on the sill and look across at her; when did you become this tall? “As if I’d want to.” 

 

She looks up at you. You look back at her. “You didn’t know?” She sounds puzzled— _bleeding out over the stones,_ you remember, _while she’s soaring in the sky—_ “You never knew…” 

 

Your chest rises and falls; it reminds you of the sea swelling and falling against rocky shores, beating against rocks until they fit a perfect image. “Knew _what?”_

 

 _“_ I never loved Sun as more than a brother.” Her hand comes up, two fingertips tracing down your jaw, and you remember how she makes you feel— like lightning is arcing through your veins, electrifying you, turning you into a pinnacle of fire. “I couldn’t. Because he’s not who I want. He’s not _you,_ Yang.” 

 

For your entire life, ever since you were born, you’ve always been burning. Fire is your element. It is who you _are._ You excel in an uncontrolled blaze, riding the crackling cinders and the unfettered chaos of infernos. You burn up in pillars of flame to the sun: you are never under careful reigns. But Blake— Blake came along and you unleashed your fire, burning yourself down into ashes. Blake is the thrill of not knowing what tomorrow brings. She is the kerosene to your flame, both of you blazing up, she the ashes, you the fire. She makes you _burn_ inside and out with love and all these other amplified emotions, and you don’t feel worried about it. It’s a safe flame. A controlled heat.

 

The moon, above, climbs to its zenith: a paragon of silver, raining down on both of you like, like— 

 

A s _potlight._ You look at the light that rays out at your feet, bars of swinging silver. It’s not a _real_ spotlight, but Blake is in it with you, and somehow, that is better. Your voice is small— God knows you’ve dreamed a moment so like this in so many lifetimes, wished and cursed the stars for Blake Belladonna, tried to make deals with a devil, and now she’s looking you in the eye and you are in shock.  

 

“I’ve never been one for words.” She sounds breathless, racing towards the end of a finish line. “But you make me every time— every time.” Your eyes meet, yours the color of wildflower meadows after winter ends and spring begins, hers the color of the sun. “There is a poem,” she says softly, eyes as wide and unexplored as the vast galaxies, “of sorrow. _‘You’re in love with her, and she’s in love with you, and it’s like a goddamn tragedy, because you look at her and see the stars, and she looks at you and sees the sun, and you both think the other is just looking at the ground.’_ ” She looks again at you; her eyes are the sun and all the stars, and you want to stop looking at the sky in two mediums. “But now I think it is time we both look at each other other and see what I think has been clear all this time.” 

 

You can almost touch her, the way you could touch the stars like bonfires of great silver fire above. “And that is?”

 

“You make me want to compose a new world, Yang.” Your hands are joined between the two of you now; she’s not the cold effigy of a grieving angel, but she’s warm, made of flesh and blood and bone, feeling emotions just like you do. “One where I’m not breaking your heart, if you’d like.” Your foreheads are resting together. “I’m sorry for not telling you sooner. I was scared. But you…” her eyes search yours, like she’s not looking _at_ you, but for something within you. “You give me more courage than I have ever known.”  

 

And when you kiss her, it is not fire, it is not the leaping flame of waves of an inferno. It is soft and it is the the weave of starlight and the song of your joined heartbeats. It is her lips against yours, her hands linked around the back of your neck, the first love you’ve loved this deeply.  

 

You feel her on more than a visceral level— the fire of her determination, the steel of her life, the anguish she has always known, the twisters of torment inside the cage of her ribs, and the most prominent, the vast heavens of love she has always held for you, the love you missed in your blindness. 

 

It is Blake. It is you. It is words— _I’m sorry, forgive me._

 

_I’m here._

 

fin;; 

 

 


End file.
